


Birthday

by youlllearntolovehowtodream



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e11 Going Home, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youlllearntolovehowtodream/pseuds/youlllearntolovehowtodream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to the flashback scene in "Going Home"; Belle tries to comfort Rumplestiltskin on Bae's birthday. This is the first piece of Rumbelle fanfiction, or any piece of fanfiction for that matter, that I've ever completed, so here it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday

            “Go away,” he snarled, turning his back towards her.

            “I’ll just put these flowers down,” she said gently, placing her basket on the table.

            “Go away,” he said again, knowing it was in vain, but hoping that if he said it forcefully enough, she would listen to him. She was always there, always asking him questions, always trying to help, always trying to know him. But why would she want to know him, the man who had traded his own son for power? The man who was just like his father. So he extinguished the candle with his fingers and put it away, because he needed to be alone to honor his son, and because he didn’t want her to ask questions. Because if she did, then she would learn what he did. And that was something that she could never find out. She was the only person that didn’t tremble when he came near, the only one who didn’t shift her eyes away when looking at him. And he would not give that up.

            But she saw the shawl, letting herself touch its edges before asking, “How old would he have been?”

            “He’s not dead. He’s just lost.” And he wasn’t sure which one was worst.

            “Lost?” She squinted her eyes at him, searching for an explanation, so desperately trying to understand him.

            He averted her question with his eyes on the shawl. He loved to be cryptic with her; another source of power, it gave him control over information and her knowledge of it. “Today is his birthday.” He paused. Why was she making him say this out loud? “I should be with him. Celebrating.” He figured if he’d already told her this much he might as well keep going. “We had a chance to be happy together, but I was afraid.” He put a hand on the shawl, looking up, not so much at her as at the wall behind her, with glazed eyes.

            She just stared at him. “Maybe it’s not too late.” She put a hand on his, and when he flinched away, she grabbed it again.

            “Rumple…” she whispered. It was the first time she had addressed him with that nickname. “Please,” she begged softly, taking a step closer to him.

            Please what? He didn’t know what she wanted from him. He didn’t know that when she saw him hurting, when she saw him weak, her head filled with feathers and she felt a magnetic pull from inside her chest, wanting to connect with his. When she touched his hand, it only heightened her ecstasy, and she could feel her heartbeat flood her ears. She opened her mouth, red lips full, and her breath caught in her throat as she tried to find words that would show him how much she wanted him. Finally, she settled for pressing the palm of her hand against his cheek, saying, “Talk to me.”

            He let her hand stay on his face and closed his eyes, but did not speak. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that he would always be alone, always abandoned, and when that happened he couldn’t be weakened by her kindness and sympathy. He opened his eyes, his irises a shade darker, and turning his head away from her hand, uttered in one low, guttural syllable, “Leave.”

            He could see her expectant face fall, her hopefulness crashing around her. She blinked, frightened, and repeated on the end of a breath, “Leave.” She was afraid that he would never want her the way she wanted him, that he would never see her as anything but a girl, his slave. Her fear made her insecure, willing to retreat, and she dropped her hand. She looked at him again, hoping he had changed his mind, that something in his face would betray his words, but he only stared coldly at her, his body all ice. When she picked up her basket and exited the room, he could see that her lashes were thick with salt tears, but he had won. He had won, and he felt safe, knowing that she would not bring him to his knees, that she would not be his undoing.


End file.
